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THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


VAGROM  VERSE 


VAGROM  VERSE 


BY 


This  is  your  charge :  you  shall  comprehend  all  vagrom 

DOGBERRY 


BOSTON   AND   NEW   YORK 
HOUGHTON,    MIFFLIN   AND   COMPANY 

fiibersibe  $te££,  <£ambribge 


Copyright,  1838, 
BY  CHARLES  HENRY  WEBB. 


All  rights  reserved. 


ONE  HUNDRED  COPIES   BOUND  ENTIRELY  UNCUT,  WITH 
PAPER    LABEL. 


(WITH  HAT  IN  HAND,) 

I  dedicate  my  verse  to  those 
Who  really  do  not  like  my  prose. 
If  these  all  like  and  buy  my  verse 
Then  Joan  must  knit  a  larger  purse. 


v 

J 


904084 


(AT   THE  DOOR.) 

I  do  not  come  in  purple  dressed, 
In  pride  of  trolls  and  catches ; 

I  come  in  rags  and  stand  confessed 
A  poet  of  shreds  and  patches. 

I  bring  to  you  but  vagrant  rhymes, 
Born  in  all  sorts  of  weather, 

Of  different  moods,  at  different  times, 
Now  gotten  first  together. 

If  some  go  lame,  and  the  foot-gear 
Of  others  needs  revamping, 

You  -will  not  think  it  very  queer — 
So  long  they've  been  a-tramping. 

But  since  I  come  in  humble  frame, 
Perhaps  you  'II  lift  your  latches, 

And  take  me  in  for  -what  I  am, — 
A  poet  of  shreds  and  patches. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

With  Hat  in  Hand 5 

At  the  Door 7 

Alec.  Dunham's  Boat 13 

"Little  Mamma" .     .  16 

Deacon  Brown 21 

Revenge 26 

With  a  Nantucket  Shell 27 

Autumn  Leaves 29 

A  Ditty  to  Dottie  Dimple 31 

March 35 

Three  Songs: 

I.     The  King  and  the  Pope  ...  36 

II.     Croquet 3s 

III.     Wind-bound 4° 

Theology  on  the  Desert 41 

Written  to  Miss  "Kitten" 43 

My  Boy  at  the  Berkeley 45 

The  Outside  Dog  in  the  Fight     ...  48 


X  CONTENTS. 

FAGR 

"  Colored  People  Allowed  in  this  Car  "  49 

The  Two  Furrows 53 

Too  Late 56 

Das  Meermadchen 57 

To  "J.  W.  H.,  Jr." 60 

One  Christmas 63 

New  Year's 66 

Three  Examples  of  English  Verse : 

I.   Triolet 63 

II.   Rondeau 68 

III.   Villanelle 69 

A  Lyric  to  Lily 71 

Her  Name  was  Felicia 73 

As  to  Five  O'Clock  in  the  Morning   .  75 

In  a  Bay  Window 77 

A  Dark  Night 79 

Our  Idols 80 

My  Rival 82 

Discarded 83 

In  Aquarelle 84 

Which  ? 85 

Sonnet 86 

Sloop  and  Cutler 87 

Do  I  know  Him  ? 92 

Love's  Ante-crematory  Farewell  ...  94 

The  Friend  of  Ages  Ago 97 


CONTENTS.  XI 

PACK 

My  Father too 

To  my  Bric-a-brac  Brothers     ....  103 

Talk 105 

The  Visit 106 

Recollections  of  Grant 108 

The  Widow's  Mite no 

To  the  Coggia  Comet in 

C-n-y  M.  D-p-w 116 

Three  Wall  Street  Waifs  : 

I.   The  Lay  of  Dan'l  Drew  .     .     .  123 

II.   Drew  and  the  Commodore   .     .  125 
III.   On  the  Reopening   of  a  Trust 

Company 129 

L'Envoi  Extraordinaire 131 


VAGROM  VERSE. 


ALEC.   DUNHAM'S    BOAT. 

THERE  she  lies  at  her  moorings, 

The  little  two-master, 
Answering  not  now 

The  call  of  disaster. 
Loose  swings  the  rudder, 

Unshipped  the  tiller; 
Crossing  the  Bar  so, 

One  sea  would  fill  her  ! 

Foresail  and  mainsail 

In  loose  folds  are  lying  : 
Naked  the  mast-heads  — 

No  pennon  flying; 
Seaweed  and  wreck 

Alike  may  drift  past  her ; 
There  lies  the  pilot-boat  — 

Where  is  her  master  ? 


14  VAC  ROM   VERSE. 

Lantern  at  Great  Point, 

Brightly  it  burns  ; 
Beacon  on  Brant  Point 

The  signal  returns. 
Far  out  to  sea 

Sankoty  flashes; 
White  on  the  shore 

The  crested  wave  dashes. 


Strident  No'th-easter 

And  smoky  Sou'-wester 
Call  for  the  pilot-boat, 

Eager  to  test  her. 
And  a  ship  on  the  Bar, 

Just  where  the  waves  cast  her ! 
Moored  lies  the  pilot-boat  — 

Where  is  her  master  ? 

Oh,  barque  driving  in, 

God  send  that  you  lee  get, 
Past  Tuckernuck  shoals, 

The  reefs  of  Muskeget. 
There  go  minute  guns  ; 

Now  faster  and  faster  — 
But  no  more  to  their  aid 

Flies  the  little  two-master. 


ALEC.   DUNHAM'S  BOAT. 

For  the  pilot  one  night 

Left  his  boat  as  you  see  her  — 
Light  moored,  that  at  signal 

He  ready  might  free  her. 
But  not  from  her  moorings 

Came  the  pilot  to  cast  her, 
Though  a  signal  he  answered  — 

One  set  by  the  Master. 

Gone,  say  you,  and  whither? 

Do  you  ask  me  which  way 
Went  good  pilot  as  ever 

Brought  ship  into  bay  ? 
Who  shall  say  how  he  cast  off, 

If  to  starboard  or  larboard  ? 
But  of  one  thing  I  'm  sure  — 

The  pilot 's  safe-harbored  ! 


1 6  VAGROM  VERSE. 


LITTLE   MAMMA. 

WHY  is  it  the  children  don't  love  me 

As  they  do  Mamma  ? 
That  they  put  her  ever  above  me  — 

u  Little  Mamma  "  ? 
I  'm  sure  I  do  all  that  I  can  do. 
What  more  can  a  rather  big  man  do, 
Who  can't  be  Mamma  — 
Little  Mamma  ? 

Any  game  that  the  tyrants  suggest, 
"  Logomachy,"  —  which  I  detest,  — 
Doll-babies,  hop-scotch,  or  base-ball, 
I  'm  always  on  hand  at  the  call. 
When  Noah  and  the  others  embark, 
I  'm  the  elephant  saved  in  the  ark. 
I  creep,  and  I  climb,  and  I  crawl  — 
By  turns  am  the  animals  all. 

For  the  show  on  the  stair 

I  'm  always  the  bear, 


LITTLE  MAMMA.  l^ 

The  chimpanzee,  or  the  kangaroo. 
It  is   never,  "  Mamma,  — 
Little  Mamma,  — 
Won't  youf" 

My  umbrella 's  the  pony  if  any  — 

None  ride  on  Mamma's  parasol ; 

I  'm  supposed  to  have  always  the  penny 

For  bon-bons,  and  beggars,  and  all. 

My  room  is  the  one  where  they  clatter  — 

Am  I  reading,  or  writing,  what  matter  ! 

My  knee  is  the  one  for  a  trot, 

My  foot  is  the  stirrup  for  Dot. 

If  his  fractions  get  into  a  snarl 

Who  straightens  the  tangles  for  Karl? 

Who  bounds  Massachusetts  and  Maine, 

And  tries  to  "  bound  "  flimsy  old  Spain  ? 

Why, 
It  is  7, 

Papa,  — 
Not  Little  Mamma ! 

That  the  youngsters  are  ingrates,don't  say. 
I  think  they  love  me  —  in  a  way  — 
As  one  does  the  old  clock  on  the  stair, — 
Any  curious,  cumbrous  affair 
That  one  's  used  to  having  about, 
2 


1 8  VAGROM   VERSE. 

And  would  feel  rather  lonely  without,  — 
I  think  that  they  love  me,  I  say, 
In  a  sort  of  a  tolerant' way  ; 

But  it 's  plain  that  papa 
Isn't  Little  Mamma. 

Thus    when     twilight     comes     stealing 

a-near, 

When  things  in  the  firelight  look  queer, 
And  shadows  the  play-room  enwrap, 
They  never  climb  into  my  lap 
And  toy  with  my  head,  smooth  and  bare, 
As  they  do  with  Mamma's  shining  hair; 
Nor  feel  round  my  throat  and  my  chin 
For  dimples  to  put  fingers  in,  — 
Nor  lock  my  neck  in  a  loving  vice 
And   say   they  're    "  mousies  "  —  that  's 
mice  — 

And  will  nibble  my  ears, 

Will  nibble  and  bite 
With  their  little  mice-teeth,  so  sharp  and 

so  white, 

If  I  do  not  kiss  them  this  very  minute  — 
Don't-wait-a-bit-but-at-once-begin-it, 

Dear  little  Papa ! 

That's  what  they  say  and  do  to 
Mamma. 


LITTLE  MAMMA.  19 

If,  mildly  hinting,  I  quietly  say  that 
Kissing 's  a  game  than  more  can  play  at, 
They  turn  up  at  once  those  innocent  eyes 
And  I  suddenly  learn  to  my  great  surprise 

That  my  face  has  "  prickles  "  — 

My  mustache  tickles. 
If  storming  their  camp   I   seize   a  pert 

shaver, 

And  take  as  a  right  what  was  asked  as  a 
favor, 

It  is,  "Oh,  Papa, 

How  horrid  you  are  — 

You  taste  exactly  like  a  cigar !  " 

But  though  the  rebels  protest  and  pout, 
And  make  a  pretence  of  driving  me  out, 
I  hold,  after  all,  the  main  redoubt,  — 
Not  by  force  of  arms  nor  the  force  of  will, 
But  the  power  of  love,  which  is  mightier 

still. 

And  very  deep  in  their  hearts,  I  know, 
Under  the  saucy  and  petulant  "  Oh," 
The  doubtful  "  Yes  "  or  the  naughty  "  No," 
They  love  Papa. 

And  down  in  the  heart  that  no  one  sees, 
Where  I  hold  my  feasts  and  my  jubilees, 


20  VAGROM  VERSE. 

\  know  that  I  would  not  abate  one  jot 
Of  the  love  that  is  held  by  my  little  Dot 
Or  my  great    big   boy   for    their    little 

Mamma, 

Though  out  in  the  cold  it  crowded  Papa. 
I  would  not  abate  it  the  tiniest  whit, 
And  I  am  not  jealous  the  least  little  bit ; 
For  I  '11  tell  you  a  secret :  Come  my  dears, 
And    I  '11    whisper    it  —  right-into-your- 

ears  — 
I  too  love  Mamma ! 

"Little  Mamma!" 


DEA  CON  BR  0  WN.  2 1 


DEACON   BROWN. 

A  DIALECTIC  EXCUSE  FOR  A  GOOD  MAN. 

IT  's  Deacon  Brown  yer  askin'  about  ? 

He  hain't  been  round  fer  a  year  ; 
They  planted  him  last  kibbage  time, 

Which  is  why  he  is  n't  here. 
Fer  p'raps   ye  've  obsarved,  as  a  gin'ral 
thing, 

Thet  this  livin'  under  ground 
Fer  a  year  or  two  don't  make  one  feel 

Pretty  much  like  sloshin'  round. 

His   kerricter,   eh  ?       What,   old    Deac. 
Brown  ? 

Well,  I  'm  ruther  'shamed  to  say 
Thet  he  wa'n't  much  the  sort  o'  saint 

Sot  up  by  Harte  and  Hay. 
He  never  cussed  in  his  nat'ral  life  — 

I  mention  this  with  consarn ; 
He  did  n't  know  how,  though  he  might  a 
know'd 

Ef  he  hed  a  car'd  ter  larn. 


22  V AC  ROM  VERSE. 

But  it  makes  it  rough  fer  the  chap  thet  gets 

The  writin'  of  his  biog., 
To  hev  ter  confess  he  's  a-slingin'  ink 

Over  sich  a  bump  on  a  log, 
Who  did  n't  amount  to  shucks  in  a  row, 

Who  never  war  out  on  a  tear, 
And  fer  tacklin'   a  neat  little   game  of 
"  draw," 

Could  n't  tell  a  full  from  a  pair. 

Fer  the  Deac.  jest  war  a  common  cuss 

O'  the  most  ornariest  kind, 
Who  never  looked  out  o'  the  winder  o'  sin, 

And  dursn't  raise  a  blind. 
Ye  've  no  idee  how  parvarse  he  was  ; 

I  've  hearn  him  remark  —  this  limb  !  — 
Thet  though  he  war  raised  in  a  Christian 
land, 

One  wife  war  enough  fer  him. 

P'raps  the  Deac.,  ef  he  'd  hed  the  rearin' 
o'  some, 

Would  a  panned  out  better  in  verse ; 
But  when  a  man  comes  of  stock  like  hisn, 

It 's  hard  to  be  bad  an'  worse. 
Onfortunit-like  fer  the  Deac.  an'  me, 

He  'd  careful  raisin'  to  hum  ; 


DEACON  BROWN.  23 

An'  ycr  can't  'spect  much  of  a  chap,  yer 

know, 
Onless  he  sprouts  from  a  slum. 

Ef  he  'd  been  a  high-toned  gambolier, 

Or  the  rough  of  a  minin'  camp, 
With  a  bushel  of  sin  in  his  kerricter, 

An'  a  touch  of  Sairey  Gamp  ; 
Or  an  injineer  or  an  injin  thar  — 

Any  kind  of  a  rum-histin'  lout,  — 
P'raps  he  'd  a  done  some  pretty  big  thing 

Fer  me  ter  be  splurgin'  about. 

But  he  jest  plugged  on  in  a  no  'count  way, 

A-leadin'  a  good  squar  life, 
Till  the  war  kem  on ;  then  he  pulled  up 
stakes, 

An'  said  good-by  ter  his  wife. 
I  've  hearn  tell  a  grittier  man  nor  him 

In  battle  never  trod, 

An'  he  did  n't  let  down  in  the  face  of 
Death, 

Although  he  b'lieved  in  a  God. 

It 's  queer  how  he  fout  at   Fredericks- 
burg— 
The  Deac.  jest  went  in  wet, 


24  FAG  ROM  VERSE. 

A-pray'n  an'  shoot'n,  an'  every  time 

A-fetchin'  his  man,  you  bet. 
Yet  he  wa'n't  sustained  by  the  soothin' 

thought, 

When  he  fell,  October  'leventh, 
Thet  he  'd  knock'd  spots  out  the  com- 

mandiments  — 
An'  been  special  rough  on  the  seventh. 

Jest  over  beyont  thet  turnip  patch, 

Some  twenty  holes  yer  kin  see 
Thet  air  filled  by  chaps  who  went  from 
here 

To  fight  'gin  Gineral  Lee. 
They  went  from  here  'bout  plantin'  time, 

They  kem  back  when  corn  was  ripe, 
An'  we  buried  'em  by  thet  walnut  tree  — 

All  chaps  o'  the  Deacon's  stripe. 

We  '11  cross  over  thar  to  the  old  man's 
grave, 

And  I  guess  I  '11  be  gittin'  then  — 
Yer  pardin,  stranger,  I  allers  unroof 

At  the  grave  o'  thet  sort  o'  men. 
I  Ve  been  gassin'  away  promiscus  like, 

But  now  I  make  bold  ter  say, 
It  don't  foller  on  a  man  's  a  sneak 

'Cause  he  lives  in  a  decent  way. 


DEACON  BROWN.  25 

I  know  some  folks  reck'n  contrairywise, 

An'  sling  their  ink  quite  free, 
But  they  hain't  got  holt  the  right  end  on  it, 

Accordin'  to  my  idee. 
An'  thet  's  why  I  've  sort  o'  been  chippin' 
in, 

A-pleadin'  the  Deacon's  excuse, 
Fer  you  know  we  all  can't  be  gamblers 
and  thieves  — 

An'  all  women  need  n't  be  loose  ! 


26  VAC  ROM  VERSE. 


REVENGE. 

REVENGE  is  a  naked  sword  — 

It  has  neither  hilt  nor  guard. 
Wouldst   thou  wield  this   brand  of  the 
Lord  ?  — 

Is  thy  grasp  then  firm  and  hard  ? 

But  the  closer  thy  clutch  of  the  blade 
The  deadlier  blow  thou  wouldst  deal, 

Deeper  wound  in  thy  hand  is  made  — 
It  is  thy  blood  reddens  the  steel. 

And  when  thou  hast  dealt  the  blow,  — 
When  the  blade  from  thy  hand  has 

flown,  — 

Instead  of  the  heart  of  the  foe 
Thou  mayst  find  it  sheathed  in  thine 
own ! 


WITH  A  NANTUCKET  SHELL.    27 


WITH   A   NANTUCKET   SHELL. 

I  SEND  thee  a  shell  from  the  ocean  beach  ; 

But  listen  thou  well,  for  my  shell  hath 
speech. 

Hold  to  thine  ear, 
And  plain  thou  'It  hear 
Tales  of  ships 
That  were  lost  in  the  rips, 
Or  that  sunk  on  shoals 
Where  the  bell-buoy  tolls, 

And  ever  and  ever  its  iron  tongue  rolls 

In  a  ceaseless  lament  for  the  poor  lost 
souls. 

And  a  song  of  the  sea 
Has  my  shell  for  thee  ; 
The  melody  in  it 
Was  hummed  at  Wauwinet, 
And  caught  at  Coatue 
By  the  gull  that  flew 
Outside  to  the  ship  with  its  perishing  crew. 


28  VAC  ROM  VERSE. 

But  the  white  wings  wave 
Where  none  may  save, 
And  there 's  never  a  stone  to  mark  a  grave. 

See,  its  sad  heart  bleeds 

For  the  sailors'  needs  ; 

But  it  bleeds  again 

For  more  mortal  pain, 

More  sorrow  and  woe 

Than  is  theirs  who  go 
With  shuddering  eyes  and  whitening  lips 
Down  in  the  sea  on  their  shattered  ships. 

Thou  fearest  the  sea  ? 

And  a  tyrant  is  he,  — 
A  tyrant  as  cruel  as  tyrant  may  be ; 

But  though  winds  fierce  blow, 

And  the  rocks  lie  low, 

And  the  coast  be  lee, 

This  I  say  to  thee : 

Of    Christian    souls    more    have    been 
wrecked  on  shore 

Than  ever  were  lost  at  sea ! 


A  UTUMN  LEA  VES.  29 


AUTUMN   LEAVES. 

THE  melancholy  days  have  come 

Of  which  the  poet  sings, 
Of  wailing  winds  and  naked  woods, 

And  other  cheerful  things. 

The  robin  from  the  glen  has  flown, 

And  there  Matilda  J. 
Now  roams  in  quest  of  autumn  leaves 

To  press  and  put  away. 

These  in  the  sere,  to  school-girls  dear, 
Are  found  where'er  one  looks, 

On  hill,  in  vale,  in  wood,  in  field  — 
But  mostly  in  my  books. 

If  I  take  up  the  Unabridged 
Some  curious  word  to  scan, 

Rare  leaves  are  sped  of  green  and  red, 
Or  maybe  black  and  tan. 


30  VAGROM  VERSE. 

And,  too,  from  delf,  on  every  shelf, 

From  pictures  on  the  wall, 
Autumnal  leaves  descend  in  sheaves  — 

With  them  'tis  always  fall. 

O  autumn  leaves,  rare  autumn  leaves  !  — 

Not  rare,  alas  !  in-doors,  — 
The  wild  wood  strew,  all  seasons  through, 

But  not  our  parlor  floors  ! 

For  now  I  know  a  solemn  truth 

I  did  suspect  before,  — 
These  leaves  that  autumn  branches  bear 

Are  an  autumnal  bore. 


DITTY  TO  DOTTY  DIMPLE.     31 


A   DITTY   TO    DOTTY   DIMPLE. 

TELL  me,  Miss  Dimple, 

Rosebud  and  buttercup, 
Will  you  be  as  charming 

When  you  grow  up  ? 
Will  your  hair  keep  its  yellow, 

Your  lips  keep  their  curl  ? 
Will  you  always,  as  now,  be 

My  own  little  girl? 

Or  will  you  grow  up  to  be 

"  Grandmamma  Dimple,"  — 
A  dear  little  grandmamma, 

Wearing  a  wimple, 
Through  spectacles  peering 

And  snipping  out  follies  — 
Red  ribbons  and  sashes 

For  grandmamma's  dollies  ? 


32  V AC  ROM  VERSE. 

Some  sunshine,  some  shadow, 

Occasional  showers, 
But  never  quite  clouded, 

This  friendship  of  ours  ; 
Just  one  little  jangle  — 

I  remember,  don't  you  ? 
When  Gwendolen's  tresses 

Got  tangled  with  glue. 

Ah,  that  was  a  morning  ! 

How  all  were  appalled, 
When  a  sudden  disaster 

Snatched  Gwendolen  bald  ! 
I  ran  with  my  glue-pot, 

But  the  brush  was  too  big 
For  a  toilet  so  dainty, 

And  we  dabbled  the  wig. 

Now,  sweetheart,  you  promise 

To  live  with  us  two, 
But  greatly  I  fear  me  — 

Yes,  Dimple,  I  do  — 
Some  voice  you  '11  find  sweeter 

Than  that  of  mamma, 
Some  one  you  '11  love  dearer 

Than  your  own  dear  papa. 


DITTY  TO  DOTTY  DIMPLE,    33 

But  tell  me,  Miss  Dimple, 

Will  any  young  sprig 
Love  you  just  as  papa  does, 

When  you  grow  to  be  big  ? 
Will  he  fly  to  aid  you 

With  comfort  and  glue, 
When  you  find  your  doll 's  hollow, 

And  the  sawdust  sifts  through  ? 


Will  he  guide  your  footsteps 

Lest  they  falter  and  fall  — 
Your  tumbles,  your  troubles, 

Will  he  share  them  all  ? 
And  when  others  don't  know 

Why  the  little  girl  cries, 
Will  he  read  the  reason 

Writ  in  your  blue  eyes  ? 

As  has  been  will  be  ever, 

The  world  holds  its  way  ; 
The  old  have  their  years, 

And  the  young  have  their  day. 
But  I  'm  jealous  this  moment  — 

Of  whom,  do  you  guess  ? 
Of  that  rival's  arrival 

In  ten  years  —  or  less  ! 
3 


34  VAGROM  VERSE. 

And  though  seeming  submissive 

While  my  little  girl  grows, 
If  I  were  a  wizard, 

And  my  wand  were  this  rose, 
Once,  twice,  I  would  wave  it  — 

Yes,  a  third  time  —  and  say  : 
"  Let  my  daughter  be  ever 

The  Dot  of  to-day !  " 


MARCH.  35 


MARCH. 

THE  earth  seems  a  desolate  mother — 
Betrayed  like  the  princess  of  old, 

The  ermine  stripped  from  her  shoulders, 
And  her  bosom  all  naked  and  cold. 

But  a  joy  looks  out  from  her  sadness, 
For  she  feels  with  a  glad  unrest 

The  throb  of  the  unborn  summer 
Under  her  bare,  brown  breast. 


36  VAGROM  VERSE. 


THE   KING  AND   THE   POPE. 

THE  King  and  the  Pope  together 

Have  written  a  letter  to  me  ; 

It  is  signed  with  a  golden  sceptre, 

It  is  sealed  with  a  golden  key. 

The  King  wants  me  out  of  his  eyesight ; 

The  Pope  wants  me  out  of  his  See. 

The  King  and  the  Pope  together 
Have  a  hundred  acres  of  land  : 
I  do  not  own  the  foot  of  ground 
On  which  my  two  feet  stand ; 
But  the  prettiest  girl  in  the  kingdom 
Strolls  with  me  on  the  sand. 

The  King  has  a  hundred  yeomen 
Who  will  fight  for  him  any  day, 
The  Pope  has  priests  and  bishops 
Who  for  his  soul  will  pray  : 
I  have  only  one  little  sweetheart, 
But  she  '11  kiss  me  when  I  say. 


THE  KING  AND  THE  POPE.     37 

The  King  is  served  at  his  table 

By  ladies  of  high  degree ; 

The  Pope  has  never  a  true  love, 

So  a  cardinal  pours  his  tea : 

No  ladies  stand  round  me  in  waiting, 

But  my  sweetheart  sits  by  me. 

And  the  King  with  his  golden  sceptre, 
The  Pope  with  Saint  Peter's  key, 
Can  never  unlock  the  one  little  heart 
That  is  opened  only  to  me. 
For  I  am  the  Lord  of  a  Realm, 
And  I  am  the  Pope  of  a  See ; 
Indeed,  I  'm  supreme  in  the  kingdom 
That  is  sitting  just  now  on  my  knee  ! 


38  VAGROM  VERSE. 


CROQUET. 

OUT  on  the  lawn,  in  the  evening  gray, 
Went  Willie  and  Kate.     I  said,  "  Which 

way  ?  " 

And  they  both  replied,  "  Croquet,  cro 
quet  ! " 

The  evening  was  bright  with  the  moon  of 
May, 

And  the  lawn  was  light  as  though  lit  by 
day; 

From  the  window  I  looked  —  to  see  cro 
quet. 

Of  mallets  and  balls,  the  usual  display; 
The  hoops  all  stood  in  arch  array, 
And  I  said  to  myself,  "  Soon  we  '11  see 
croquet." 


CROQUET.  39 

But  the  mallets  and  balls  unheeded  lay. 
And  the  maid  and  the  youth?  — side  by 

side  sat  they ; 
And  I  thought  to  myself,  Is  that  croquet  ? 

I  saw  the  scamp  —  it  was  light  as  day  — 
Put  his  arm  round  her  waist  in  a  loving 

way, 
And  he  squeezed  her  hand,  — was  that 

croquet  ? 

While  the  red  rover  rolled  forgotten  away, 
He  whispered  all  that  a  lover  should  say, 
And  kissed  her    lips,  —  what    a    queer 
croquet ! 

Silent  they  sat  'neath  the  moon  of  May, 
But  I  knew  by  her  blushes  she  said  not 

Nay; 
And  I  thought  in  my  heart,  Now  that 's 

croquet ! 


40  VAGROM  VERSE. 


WIND-BOUND. 

Oh,  the  wind  blows  north, 
And  the  wind  blows  south  • 

Would  a  man  dare  kiss 
His  love  on  the  mouth  ? 

But  the  wind  now  east, 
And  the  wind  now  west  — 

She  wears  a  dagger 
Under  her  vest ! 

Yes,  maids  have  their  moods 
But  a  man  may  try ; 

Blow  the  wind  as  it  will, 
He  can  only  die. 


THEOLOGY  ON  THE  DESERT.    41 


THEOLOGY   ON   THE    DESERT. 

THE  sands  of  the  desert  glowed  hot  and 

red, 

The  sun  of  the  desert  beat  down, 
Till  it  blistered  the  top  of  the  Carmelite's 

head  — 
Just  the  round  shaven  spot  on  his  crown. 

An    Arab   swept   up,   bare-chested    and 

brown ; 

"  My  tent-door  stands  open,"  he  said. 
The  monk  found  a  wine-skin  under  his 

gown; 
The  Arab  gave  dates  and  bread. 

'•  Kind  Allah,  we  thank  thee  !  "  the  Arab 
cried, 

When  our  simple  repast  was  spread. 
I  fell  to  at  once,  but  the  monk  replied, 

"  Nay,  Sheik,  thank  the  Lord  instead !  " 


42  VAC  ROM  VERSE. 

Then  the  two  argued  loud  and  the  two 

argued  long 

As  to  how  the  grace  should  be  said ; 
But  before  they  got  at  the  right  or  the 

wrong 
I  had  finished  both  dates  and  bread. 

When  they  turned   to  me   I   could  not 
declare 

On  a  point  so  exceedingly  fine; 
But  I  rode  away  on  the  Arab's  mare 

With  my  friend  the  Carmelite's  wine  ! 

Just  where  my  thanks  are  due  I  cannot 
decide, 

But  honors  are  easy,  I  think ; 
So  Allah  I  thank  for  the  mare  I  ride, 

The  Lord  for  the  wine  I  drink. 


TO   MISS  "KITTEN."  43 


WRITTEN  TO  MISS   "KITTEN." 

(A  VERY   LITTLE  BODY.) 

IF  you  had  a  little  lover, 
Little  Kitten,  — 
A  very  little  lover, 
But  dreadfully  smitten,  — 
What  would  you  say, 
And  what  would  you  do, 
If  this  little  lover 
Were  littler  than  you  ? 

To  love  one  below  you 

Never  is  right ; 

How  could  you  loojc  up  to 

A  man  of  less  height  ? 

And  then  a  short-coming 

Always  is  wrong. 

If  you  loved  him  so  little, 

Could  you  love  him  long  ? 


44  VAC  ROM  VERSE. 

A  lover  should  reach  — 
The  reason,  you  see  — 
Just  up  to  your  heart 
When  he  's  on  his  knee. 
If  he  stood  but  that  high, 
I  wonder,  Miss  Kitten, 
Would  you  give  sigh  for  sigh, 
Or  give  him  the  mitten  ? 


MY  BOY  AT  THE  BERKELEY.     45 


MY   BOY  AT   THE   BERKELEY. 

SAVE  us  !  what  are  these  soldiers  all, 

In  uniforms  of  blue, 
With  real  guns  and  bayonets, 

And  real  brass  buttons  too  ? 

It  is  a  noble  regiment 

As  one  would  care  to  see. 
The  veterans  must  be  quite  sixteen ; 

Cadets  —  none  less  than  three. 

And  towering  in  the  bristling  ranks 

There  goes,  as  I  'm  alive, 
Above  the  average  four  feet  six, 

One  giant  of  nearly  five. 

"  Attention  /"  now  the  warriors  form  ; 

"  Knees  straight  and  shoulders  square, 
Heels  on  a  line,  eyes  to  the  front !  " 

And  look  !  my  boy  is  there. 


46  VAC  ROM  VERSE. 

Cross-belts,  waist-belt,  and  cartridge-box 
With  several  dreadful  "  rounds ;  ' 

The  gun  alone  can  scarcely  weigh 
An  ounce  less  than  two  pounds. 

But  at  the  order,  "  Carry  ARMS  !  " 

Up  goes  that  gun  so  grim. 
Why,  in  these  arms  but  yesterday, 

It  seems,  I  carried  him. 

"  Right  shoulder  ARMS  !  "     Now  look  at 
that ! 

The  sturdy  little  elf ! 
I  've  half  a  mind  to  break  the  ranks, 

And  "  shoulder  ""him  myself. 

That  private  with  a  general's  air, 

In  uniform  of  blue, 
Seems  such  a  funny  burlesque  of 

The  babe  that  once  I  knew. 

To-day,  with  belt  and  glittering  gun 

He  marches  in  platoon ; 
Of  old,  his  full  equipments  were 

A  bib  and  shining  spoon. 

Ah  !  different  then  the  orders  came 
From  the  regimental  head,  — 

"  Don't  tip  your  bowl  so  much,  my  son ; 
You  '11  spill  your  milk  and  bread  ! " 


MY  BOY  AT  THE  BERKELE Y.     4 7 

I  told  him  stories  on  my  knee, 

Stories  that  were  not  true  ; 
If  I  should  tell  them  to  him  now, 

I  think  he  'd  run  me  through. 

For  now  he  knows  geography, 
And  can  such  things  expound 

As  why  the  seasons  march  straight  on, 
And  why  the  earth  goes  round. 

Arithmetic,  zoology, 

German  and  French  and  such,  — 
I  'd  count  myself  a  learned  man 

If  I  knew  half  as  much. 

But  what  most  awes  me  in  the  boy, 
And  strikes  me  dumb  and  still 

With  a  sense  of  insignificance, 
Is  —  when  I  see  him  drill ; 

When,  with  "  both  feet  turned  out  alike," 
I  see  him  stand  —  MY  SON  !  — 

His  martial  "  chin  drawn  slightly  in  " 
Behind  that  awful  gun  ! 


48  V AC  ROM  VERSE. 


THE   OUTSIDE   DOG  IN   THE 
FIGHT. 

You  may  sing  of  your  dog,  your  bottom 
deg, 

Or  of  any  dog  that  you  please,  — 
I  go  for  the  dog,  the  wise  old  dog, 

That  knowingly  takes  his  ease, 
And,  wagging  his  tail  outside  the  ring, 

Keeping  always  his  bone  in  sight, 
Cares  not  a  pin  in  his  wise  old  head 

For  either  dog  in  the  fight. 

Not  his  is  the  bone  they  are  fighting  for, 

And  why  should  my  dog  sail  in, 
With  nothing  to  gain  but  a  certain  chance 

To  lose  his  own  precious  skin  ? 
There  may  be  a  few,  perhaps,  who  fail 

To  see  it  in  quite  this  light, 
But  when  the  fur  flies  I  had  rather  be 

The  outside  dog  in  the  fight. 


COLORED  PEOPLE  ALLOWED.    49 


"COLORED  PEOPLE  ALLOWED 
IN   THIS   CAR." 

1860. 

INDEED,  this  permission  is  worthy  of 
praise ! 

You  '11  allow  our  dark  brother  to  ride  —  if 
he  pays ; 

Though  of  course  we  must  seat  him  aloof 
and  afar  — 

Swart  Night  from  blonde  Day  has  a  sep 
arate  car. 

Where  this   condescension  shall    cease, 

who  can  say? 
Perhaps,  the  next  thing,  we  '11  allow  him 

to  pray ; 
And  the  sexton  of  Grace  —  with  a  grace 

rather  new  — 
Will  pocket  his  sixpence  and  show  him  a 

pew. 

4 


50  VAGROM  VERSE. 

By  the  way,  I  've  a  curious  longing  to 

know 

How  the  races  were  classified  ages  ago. 
I  wonder  if  Noah  —  that  primitive  tar  — 
When  he  launched  the  vast  hull  of  his 

water-way  car, 
Placed  a  notice  outside,  that  was  good  for 

the  trip, 
Permitting  the  "  colored  "  to  ride  in  his 

ship  ;' 
Or  did  a  conductor  mount  guard  in  the 

ark, 
Admitting  light  skins  and  excluding  the 

dark  ? 

And  I  wonder  if  God,  when  the  morn 

he  unfurled, 
Thought  of  placing  a  label  like  this  on  the 

world ; 
When  he  fashioned  and  grooved  each  orb 

in  its  place, 
And  the  great  solar  train  went  whirling 

through  space, 
Was  there  placard  affixed  to  planet  or 

star 
Like  your  "  Colored  people  allowed  in  this 

car"? 


COLORED  PEOPLE  ALLOWED.    51 

There  's  an  old-fashioned  car,  of  a  build 

rather  queer, 
Unadapted  for  comfort,  dark,  dampsome 

and  drear, 
And  it  starts  from  a  depot  perhaps  you 

have  seen, 
Where  the  ivy  grows  rankly,  the  willow 

waves  green  ; 
It  goes  from  our  shores,  but  it  comes  not 

again  — 
All  ranks  and  complexions  are  one  on  this 

train. 

You  start,  my  fair  friend ;  I  confess  't  is 

not  right 
That  the  Ethiop  race  should  thus  ride  with 

the  white. 
Ho !  gather  your  shroud  and  shrink  to 

one  side ; 
No  need  to  converse  though  together  ye 

ride. 
This    train    travels    swift  ;    at    the    first 

station-star 
Perhaps  they  '11  appoint  you  a  separate 

car ! 

Or  you  may  not  complain  —  I  doubt  on 

the  whole 
If  hue  of  the  skin  can  give  tint  to  the  soul ; 


52  V AC  ROM  VERSE. 

And  't  were  better  by  far  that  no  scorn- 
shafts  you  fling  — 

Who  knows  what  queer  changes  that 
morrow  may  bring? 

Thus  De  Vere   and  old   Pompey  —  my 

point  to  explain  — 
Might  knock  at  St.  Peter's  and  both  knock 

in  vain ; 
Or  it  might  someway  hap  —  I  '11  give  you 

the  doubt  — 

That  one  was  admi  tted,the  other  barred  out. 
And  which  were  the  favored  is  not  very 

clear  — 
Pompey's  worth  might   outbalance    the 

blood  of  De  Vere  ! 

Ere  we  part,  my  fair  friend,  let  me  give 
you  a  hint, 

Since  you  value  yourself  on  your  skin  and 
its  tint : 

When  you  've  taken  this  train  that  is 
waiting  for  you, 

And  the  shores  of  Eternity  loom  on  your 
view, 

You  may  just  chance  to  stand  the  wrong 
side  of  the  bar, 

While  your  "  colored  "  companion  's  "  al 
lowed  in  the  car !  " 


THE   TWO  FURROWS.  S3 


THE   TWO   FURROWS. 
1861. 

THE  spring-time  came,  but  not  with  mirth  ; 

The  banner  of  our  trust  — 
And  with  it  the  best  hope  of  earth  — 

Was  trailing  in  the  dust. 

The  farmer  saw  the  shame  from  far, 
And  stopped  his  plough  afield  : 

"  Not  the  blade  of  peace,  but  the  brand 

of  war 
This  arm  of  mine  must  wield. 

"  When  traitor  hands  that  flag  would  stain, 
Their  homes  let  women  keep  ; 

Until  its  stars  burn  bright  again 
Let  others  sow  and  reap  !  " 


54  VAC  ROM  VERSE. 

The  farmer  sighed  :  "  A  lifetime  long 
The  plough  has  been  my  trust, 

And  sure  it  were  an  arrant  wrong 
To  leave  it  now  to  rust !  " 


With  ready  strength  the  farmer  tore 

The  iron  from  the  wood, 
And  to  the  village  smith  he  bore 

That  ploughshare  stout  and  good. 

The  blacksmith's  arms  were  bare  and 
brown, 

His  bellows  wheezed  and  roared. 
The  farmer  flung  the  ploughshare  down  : 

"  Now  forge  me  out  a  sword  !  " 

The  blacksmith  wrought  with  skill  that 
day, 

The  blade  was  keen  and  bright,  — 
And  still  where  thickest  is  the  fray 

The  farmer  leads  the  fight. 

Not  as  of  old  that  blade  he  sways 
To  break  the  meadow's  sleep, 

But  through  the  rebel  ranks  he  lays 
A  furrow  broad  and  deep. 


THE    TWO  FURROWS.  55 

And  though   his   fields   stand   sere  and 
brown, 

The  farmer  keeps  his  vow; 
Right  well  he  knows  what  blessings  crown 

The  furrow  of  the  plough. 

"  But  better  is  to-day's  success,"  — 

So  ran  the  farmer's  word,  — 
"  For  nations  yet  unborn  shall  bless 

This  furrow  of  the  sword  !  " 


56  VAGROM  VERSE. 


TOO    LATE. 

Too  late  thy  honeyed  words, 

Too  late  thy  tears  ; 
A  life  is  told  by  grief, 

And  not  by  years. 

And  I  have  lived  the  woe 

In  one  brief  day 
Of  twice  three-score  and  ten  - 

My  heart  is  gray. 

Thou  canst  not  stir  its  pulse 

With  hope  nor  fear  ; 
The  day  is  well-nigh  done, 

And  night  is  near. 

Go  !  bathe  no  more  the  brow 
Thy  lips  once  pressed  — 

For  I  am  weary  now, 
And  I  would  rest. 


DAS  MEERMADCHEN.  57 


DAS  MEERMADCHEN. 

On,  Spring  is  blithe  and  Summer  gay, 
The  Autumn  golden  and  Winter  gray ; 

But  the  seasons  come  and  the  seasons  go, 
All  alike  to  me  in  their  ebb  and  flow, 

Since  the  day  I  rode  by  the  cheating  sea, 
And  one  of  its  maidens  had  speech  with 
me. 

Her  skin  was  whiter  than  words  can  speak, 
The  blush  of  the  sea-shell  lit  her  cheek ; 

Her  lips  had  ripened  in  coral  caves, 
Her  eyes  were  blue  as  the  deeper  waves ; 

And  her  long  yellow  hair  fell  fair  and  free 
In  a  shower  of  amber  upon  the  sea. 

"  Knight,  gallant  knight,  a  boon  I  pray : 
Give  me  to  ride  thy  charger  gray !  " 


58  VAGROM  VERSE. 

"  Oh,  ships  for  the  sea,  but  steeds  for  the 

shore, 
I  '11  give  thee  a  boat  with  a  golden  oar  ! " 

"  Nay,  gallant  knight,  no  charm  has  the 

sea ; 
I  would  dwell  on  the  green  earth  ever  with 

thee ! " 

For  her  speech  was  fair  as  her  face  was 

fair ; 
Had  she  asked  my  soul,  it  was  hers,  I 

swear ! 

And  I  led  her  —  light  as  sea-birds  flit  — 
Where    my   steed   stood    champing   his 
golden  bit. 

The  stirrups  of  silver  were  wrought  in 

Spain ; 
My  hand  into  hers  put  the  silken  rein. 

And  that  is  the  last,  though  the  stars  are 

old, 
I  saw  of  my  steed  with  his  housings  of 

gold. 

Was  ever  such  folly  in  all  the  world  wide  ? 
But  who  would  have  thought  a  mermaid 
could  ride, 


DAS  MEERMADCHEN.  59 

Or  a  maiden  of  earth,  of  air,  or  the  wave, 
Should  fly  from  her  love  with  the  wings 
he  gave  ? 

Faithless  and  loveless  I  walk  by  the  shore, 
Never  a  maiden  has  speech  with  me  more. 

But  this  brings  not  back  my  charger  gray, 
Nor  the  false,  false  love  who  rode  him 
away. 


60  VAGROM  VERSE. 


TO  "J.  W.  H.,  JR." 

(ON   SUDDENLY  SEEING  A  COPY  OF  THE 
"NEW  MONTHLY   MAGAZINE.") 

IT  pleases  me  one  friend  to  see 

With  a  familiar  mien, 
And  fresh  as  in  the  olden  time,  — 

I  mean  the  magazine  ; 
Jocose  as  when  we  both  were  young, 

Some  twenty  years  ago, 
When  I  was  a  contributor, 

And  you  were  —  "  Brooklyn  Jo." 

Yes,  in  a  wicked  world  like  this, 

Where  much  to  us  seems  strange, 
It  comforts  one  to  find  a  friend, 

Or  thing,  that  does  not  change. 
Here's  one  that  outwardly,  at  least, 

Stands  to  old  colors  true, 
And  comes  in  buff,  as  though  to  say, 

" I  'm  an  'old  buffer '  too." 

And  yet  it  has  not  grown  in  girth, 
Nor  has  it  lost  a  page  ; 


TO  "J.   W.  H.,JR."  6 1 

I  try  the  hinges  of  the  back  — 

There  is  no  creak  of  age  ; 
But  one  of  us  is  growing  thin, 

And  one  's  already  stout ; 
I  am  rheumatic — when  it  rains; 

And  you  —  well,  is  it  gout  ? 

Just  as  of  old  its  stories  run, 

Our  stories  do  not  race  ; 
And  for  ourselves  —  a  seemly  walk 

Were  clearly  our  best  pace. 
However,  I  was  never  fast, 

As  all  the  world  must  know  ; 
And  you  a  Joseph  always  were, 

Although  we  called  you  Jo. 

But  sadder  changes  years  have  brought : 

When  I  to  Franklin  fare 
To  see  the  sons,  —  whose  fathers,  too, 

Did  business  on  the  Square,  — 
I  find  the  same  old  counting-room, 

But,  with  a  sorrow  keen, 
I  miss  the  voices  now  unheard, 

The  faces  now  unseen. 

And  yet  I  count  no  empty  chair  : 
The  dear  old  boys  are  dead, 


62  VAC  ROM  VERSE. 

But  other  boys,  for  whom  they  built, 
Are  reigning  in  their  stead ; 

And  busy  in  the  rooms  I  see 
An  ever-lengthening  row 

Of  boys  in  training  for  the  toil 
To  come  when  you  boys  go. 

For  toil  and  care  come  with  the  crown, 

To  age  the  young  heir's  brow  ; 
Quite  reverential  is  my  style 

When  I  address  you  now. 
But  there  's  a  river  yet  to  cross  ; 

Near  and  more  near  its  flow  — 
If  we  meet  on  the  farther  bank, 

I  '11  call  you  "  Brooklyn  Jo !  " 


ONE    CHRISTMAS.  63 


ONE   CHRISTMAS. 

WITH  Morning's  first  blush  our  two  little 

ones  woke  — 
Like  twin  roses  they  laughed  in  their 

bed; 
For  the  day  and  their  rest  both  smilingly 

broke, 

And  their  cheeks,  like  the  dawning, 
were  red. 

Soon  a  patter  of  footsteps  we  heard  on 

the  stair, 
Light  as  summer  rain  dropping  from 

eaves  — 
Each  little  foot,  blushing  because  it  was 

bare, 
Seemed  a  rosebud  with  five  open  leaves. 

Away  to  the  hearth-stone  they  stole  on 

tip-toe, 

And  their  laugh  was  a  glad  Christmas 
hymn, 


64  VAC  ROM  VERSE. 

Their  hearts  were  so  full  that  they  must 

overflow, 

And  their  stockings  were  chock  to  the 
brim. 

There  were  pea-guns  and  whistles,  and 

harlequin-jacks 
That  would  dance  though  a  monk  pulled 

the  string, 
And  crumpets  and  trumpets  and  all  the 

knickknacks 

That     Kriss     Kringle     is    certain    to 
bring. 

Such  blasts  of  tin  trumpets,  such  volleys 

of  peas ! 
You  'd  have  thought  that  they  stormed 

a  Redan : 
But  our  rampart,  the  sofa,  they  carried 

with  ease, 
And  Tabby,  its  garrison,  ran. 

Now  the  chimney  at  daybreak  had  plagued 

us  with  smoke, — 
As  smokers,  alas,  often  do,  — 
And  here  was  a  story  to  tell  the  small  folk, 
When  they  wondered  what  troubled 
the  flue. 


ONE    CHRISTMAS.  65 

For  we  told  them  the  steeds  that  Saint 

Nicholas  drove, 

Left  standing  outside  in  the  snow, 
Perhaps    snuggled    in,  filling    chimneys 

above, 

While    their    master    filled    stockings 
below. 

The  little  ones  fully  accepted  this  creed, — 
As   soon   they  'd  have    doubted    their 

prayers,  — 
And  I  envied  their  faith  ;  we  old  Gentiles 

have  need 
Of  a  credence  as  ready  as  theirs. 

When  we  doubt  what  was  dear  to  our 

childish  belief, — 
For  this  is  the  wisdom  of  men,  — • 
Thinking  that  to  be  wisdom  that  only  is 

grief,  — 
Indeed,  are  we  wiser  than  then? 

For  oft  when  my  soul  trails  her  wings  in 

the  dust, 

And  would  rest  from  the  struggle  without, 
I  ask  of  myself:  Is  it  folly  to  trust  ? 
Is  it  wisdom  to  question  and  doubt  ? 
5 


66  VAC  ROM  VERSE. 


NEW  YEAR'S. 

THE  Seen  from  the  Unseen 
Is  bounded  by  a  breath,  — 

So  very  faint  the  line 
We  scarce  know  which  is  death. 

We  scarce  know  when  to  laugh, 
And  never  when  to  weep ; 

We  smile  when  babes  are  born, 
We  mourn  when  old  men  sleep. 

Blithe  rings  the  natal  chime, 
And  sadly  sobs  the  knell,  — 

The  priest  who  prays  below 
Is  wiser  than  the  bell. 

Last  night  while  Dian  slept, 
Strange  wonders  filled  the  sky ; 

An  infant  softly  crept, 
A  pa^  ghost  shuddered  by. 


NEW  YEAR'S.  67 

Twelve  round  and  ripened  moons 
Dropped  from  their  withered  stem ; 

And  twelve  fair  blossoms  came, 
To  ripe  and  fall  like  them. 

The  clouds,  like  pale-faced  nuns, 
Hung  weeping  o'er  a  bier ; 

While  gray  and  hooded  hours 
Were  bearing  out  the  year. 

Fair  speed  the  funeral  train  ! 

But  to  each  year  its  due : 
There  cypress  for  the  Old  — 

Here  roses  for  the  New ! 

Let  gladness  fill  the  cup, 
We  drink  a  courtly  toast,  — 

Health  to  the  living  heir  ! 
Peace  to  the  graybeard's  ghost ! 


68  VAGROM  VERSE. 


THREE   EXAMPLES   OF    ENG 
LISH   VERSE. 

Fifty  thousand  socialists  around  old  St.  Paul's, 
and  English  poets  are  writing  —  Triolets  !  ! ! 

E.  C.  STEDMAN. 

I. 

TRIOLET. 

WHILE  they  write  Triolets, 
The  masses  are  rising, 
With  curses  and  threats, 
While  they  write  Triolets 
(How  their  anger  it  whets  ! ) ; 

Nor  is  it  surprising, 
While  they  write  Triolets, 

That  the  masses  are  rising. 


n. 


RONDEAU. 

IN  corsets  laced,  in  high-heeled  shoes, 
Too  fine  a  woodland  way  to  choose, 


EXAMPLES  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE.  69 

With  mincing  step  and  studied  strut, 
Is  this  an  English  goddess  ?     Tut  — 
Some  masker  from  the  Parlez-voos  ! 

0  Poet !  thou  of  sinewy  thews, 

Wilt  thou  free  ways  and  walks  refuse, 
To  mince  instead  through  paths  close 
shut, 

In  corsets  laced  ? 

1  cannot  — for  I  Ve  old-time  views  — 
Follow  the  poet  who  pursues 

The  Rondeau,  with  its  rabbit  scut, 
Or  triumphs  in  a  Triolet,  but  — 
There  may  be  those  who  like  the  Muse 
In  corsets  laced ! 


in. 

VILLANELLE. 

JEAN  PASSER  AT,  I  like  thee  well; 

Thou  sang'st  a  song  beyond  compare  - 
But  I  've  not  lost  a  tourterelle, 

Nor  can  I  write  a  Villanelle  ! 

Thou  did'st ;  and  for  that  jewel  rare, 
Jean  Passerat,  I  like  thee  well. 


70  VAGROM  VERSE. 

Now  many  a  twittering  hirondelle 
The  plumes   of  thy   lost  dove  would 

wear  — 
But  I  Ve  not  lost  a  tourterelle, 

Could  not,  indeed,  true  turtle  tell,  — 
If  real  or  mock  I  could  not  swear. 
Jean  Passerat,  I  like  thee  well, 

True  heart  that  would  go  "aprks  elle"  — 

An  aspiration  I  would  share,  — 
But  I  've  not  lost  a  tourterelle, 

And  am  content  on  earth  to  dwell,  — 

There  are  some  men  they  cannot  spare ! 
Jean  Passerat,  I  like  thee  well, 
But  I  've  not  lost  a  tourterelle  / 


A   LYRIC   TO  LILY.  71 


A   LYRIC   TO   LILY. 

(Who  feared  that  I  would  not  be  industrious 
even  if  I  were  a  honey-bee.) 

IF  I  were  a  honey-bee 

What  would  I  do  ? 
I  '11  tell  to  no  other, 

Darling,  but  you  : 
Near  the  heart  of  the  Lily, 

Folding  my  wings,  — 
Think  it  no  harm,  darling, 

'T  is  a  bee  sings,  — • 

There  I  would  linger 

All  of  the  day ; 
None  of  the  garden 

Should  tempt  me  away. 
The  Tulip,  proud  lady, 

I  would  disdain  ; 
The  Violet's  blue  eyes  should 

Woo  me  in  vain  ; 


72  VAGROM   VERSE. 

The  tears  of  the  Blue-bell 

Ever  might  fall ; 
The  Rose  and  the  Woodbine 

Cling  to  the  wall ; 
The  Cowslip  and  Daisy 

Lie  in  the  sun  : 
I  would  not  kiss  them,  — 

Never  a  one. 

But  alone  with  my  Lily 

Ever  I  'd  rest, 
Shrined  in  the  whiteness 

Of  her  fair  breast ; 
Think  it  no  harm,  darling, — 

Only  you  see 
That  I  'd  make  honey 

Were  I  a  bee ! 


HER  NAME   WAS  FELICIA.      73 


HER   NAME   WAS   FELICIA. 

WHEN  soft  and  sweet  the  summer  moon 
Smiled  down,  and  all  was  peace, 

And  every  pulse  of  mine  kept  tune, 
I  learned  her  name,  —  Felice. 

First  on  the  beach,  then  in  the  brine 
(Some  thought  it  was  my  niece), 

She  laid  her  little  hand  in  mine, 
And  said  she  was  —  Felice. 

And  all  who  sat  along  the  shore 
And  watched  the  tide's  increase, 

Knew  I  was  Felix  o'er  and  o'er. 
Did  they  think  her  —  Felice  ? 

Still  swings  on  high  the  self-same  moon; 

Still  all  around  seems  peace. 
Still  sit  I  on  the  sandy  dune  ; 

But  where  is  she,  —  Felice  ? 


74  VAGROM  VERSE 

The  summer  moon  still  swings  on  high- 
Oh,  summer,  must  you  cease  ? 

Infelicissimus  am  I ; 
But  she  is  still  —  Felice. 


FIVE  IN  THE  MORNING.       75 


AS    TO    FIVE    O'CLOCK    IN    THE 
MORNING. 

IT  is  all  very  well  for  the  poets  to  tell, 

By  way  of  their  song  adorning, 
Of  milkmaids  who  rouse,  to  manipulate 

cows, 

At  Five  o'clock  in  the  morning ; 
And  of  moony  young  mowers  who  bundle 

out  doors  — 

The  charms  of  their  straw-beds  scorn 
ing— 

Before  break  of  day,  to  make  love  and  hay, 
At  Five  o'clock  in  the  morning ! 

But,  between  me  and  you,  it  is  all  untrue  — 

Believe  not  a  word  they  utter  ; 
To  no  milkmaid  alive  does  the  finger  of 
Five 

Bring  a  beau  —  or  even  bring  butter. 
The  poor  sleepy  cows,  if  told  to  arouse, 

Might  do  so  with  some  suborning ; 
But  the  sweet  country  girls,  would  they 
show  their  curls 

At  Five  o'clock  in  the  morning? 


76  VAGROM  VERSE. 

It  is  all  very  well  to  sing  or  to  tell, 

But  if  I  were  a  maid,  all  forlorn-ing, 
And  a  lover  should  drop  in  the  clover,  to 

pop, 

At  Five  o'clock  in  the  morning,  — 
If  I  liked  him,  you  see,  I  'd  say,  "  Please 

call  at  Three  ;  " 

If  not,  I  'd  turn  on  him  with  scorning : 
"  Don't  come  here,  you  flat,  with  conun 
drums  like  that, 
At  Five  o'clock  in  the  morning !  " 


IN  A   BAY-WINDOW.  77 


IN   A   BAY-WINDOW. 

AH,  yes,  there  's  a  change  in  the  weather; 

It  does  look  a  little  like  snow,  — 
Though  in  this  recess  it  seems  summer, 

And  around  us  these  red  roses  blow. 

There    is   scarcely  a  theme  we  've  not 
touched  on  — 

Secluded,  but  talking  at  large  — 
From  the  latest  lyric  of  Locker 

To  the  very  last  freak  of  Lafarge. 

And  now  it  has  come  to  the  weather,  — 
As  you  say,  there  's  a  feeling  of  snow  ; 

But  do  you  not  think  it  was  warmer 
In  this  window  one  winter  ago  ? 

Whose    landscape,    that    one    near    the 

curtain  ? 

It  is  good?  I  really  don't  know; 
I  am  thinking,  instead,  of  the  picture 
Then  seen  where  these  Jacqueminots 
blow. 


78  VAGROM  VERSE. 

Just  the  same  sweet  profusion  of  roses, 

A  lady,  a  silken  divan, 
A  vase, — was  it  Wedgwood  or  Minton  ?  — 

And  a  gentleman  holding  a  fan. 

Was  the  talk  then  of  art  and  the  weather  ? 
Who  could  say  ?  —  for  their  voices  were 

low; 

But  none  then  who  saw  them  together 
Thought  it  looked  in  the  slightest  like 
snow. 

Must  I  look  at  that  thing  on  the  easel?  — 
Naughty  nymph,  and  a  bad  Bougue- 
reau ! 

But  you  plainly  prefer  any  picture 
To  the  one  whose  each  detail  you  know. 

You  think  it  unwise  to  recall  things  ? 

Unwise  !     It  is  wrong,  on  my  life  ! 
The  weather  's  so  different  this  winter,  — 

You  are  married,  and  I  — have  a  wife. 

Around  us  the  same  crimson  curtains, 
Just  as  warmly  the  Jacqueminots  glow ; 

But  I  feel  the  same  chill  that  you  speak 

of,- 
In  the  air  there  is  certainly  snow ! 


A   DARK  NIGHT.  79 


A   DARK   NIGHT. 

THERE  is  darkness  on  the  earth  to-night, 
There  is  darkness  in  my  heart ; 

And  from  the  gloom  to  sudden  sight 
Strange  spectres  stir  and  start. 

And  by  my  side  these  spectres  stalk 
With  slow  remorseless  tread ; 

Oh,  God !   that  things  like  these  should 

walk, 
Though  graves  give  up  their  dead. 

To  lay  such  ghosts  as  these  I  wist 

All  masses  were  in  vain, 
Though  prayer  should  rise  like  morning 
mist, 

And  beads  should  fall  like  rain. 

For  the  dead  that  fill  my  heart  to-night 
No  cerements  have  nor  crave ; 

You  could  not  hide  them  from  my  sight 
Though  earth  were  all  a  grave. 


8o  VAGROM  VERSE. 


OUR   IDOLS. 

POOR  idols,  how  they  fade  and  fall 
Their  changeful  fanes  within  ! 

And  only  niches  in  the  wall 
Tell  that  a  shrine  has  been. 

And  "Ah,"  you  cry,  "then  Love  is  nought, 
Arid  Faith  is  lifeless  grown  !" 

But  is  this  seeming  unfaith  wrought 
By  changefulness  alone  ? 

We  love  not  what  our  idols  are ; 

We  worship  what  they  seem. 
And  if  we  worshipped  from  afar, 

We  still  might  love  and  dream. 

A  star  perchance  were  not  a  star 
If  one  could  reach  the  skies ; 

A  touch  tells  what  our  idols  are  — 
And  then  devotion  dies. 


IDOLS.  8 1 

Too  near  the  shrine ;  ah,  woe  the  day 

That  so  requites  a  trust ! 
We  find  our  idols'  feet  are  clay, 

And  hurl  them  to  the  dust. 

So  in  its  rage  the  ruthless  blast 
Spares  not  the  fairest  flowers  : 

The  sin  of  the  Iconoclast  — 
His  punishment  is  ours. 

By  unlit  altars  groping  still 
His  fate  is  thine  and  mine  — 

Better  a  fane  that  false  gods  fill 
Than  one  without  a  shrine. 


82  VAC  ROM  VERSE. 


MY   RIVAL. 


HE  stands  him  all  smiling  and  bland 
Just  there  where  the  tapestries  fall ; 

The  wine  cup  he  holds  in  his  hand 
Throws  a  dabble  of  red  on  the  wall. 

See,  he  smiles  to  himself  as  he  sips 
Of  his  wine  in  the  alcove  apart ! 

Will  he  smile  when  my  dagger's  thin  lips 
Shall  drink  the  red  wine  of  his  heart  ? 

II. 

There  's  a  dead  man  out  in  the  night, 

Under  the  stars  he  lies  ; 
And  the  dews  in  a  monotone  drip,  — 

Cold  tears  from  unsorrowing  eyes. 

—  He  was  my  rival  once. 

Whose  now  is  the  better  fate  ? 
He  married  the  girl  of  his  love ; 

I  murdered  the  man  of  my  hate  ! 


DISCARDED.  83 


DISCARDED. 

LAST  night  I  lay  on  her  breast ; 
To-day  I  lie  at  her  feet. 
Then  to  her  heart  I  was  pressed  ; 
Now  —  you  tread  on  me,  sweet ! 

Ah,  lightly  as  possible,  pray  — 
Grace  for  your  one  rose  of  last  night ! 
If  perhaps  I  look  faded  to-day, 
Are  you  quite  so  fresh  in  this  light  ? 

And  though  nice  of  you  dropping  that 

tear,  — 
There  are  some  who  may  think  it  my 

due, — 

Did  it  never  occur  to  you,  dear, 
That  the  flower  may  have  wearied  of  you? 


84  VAC  ROM  VERSE. 


IN   AQUARELLE. 

WHAT  of  Nantucket  ? 

Quakers  and  quiet ; 
Westerly  winds,  — 

And  some  sameness  of  diet. 

What  of  Bar  Harbor  ? 

Mermaids  that  menace ; 
Flirtings,  striped  skirtings, 

Lots  of  lawn-tennis. 

Better  my  cat-boat  — 

Only  two  in  it 
(Wind  from  the  westward)  — 

Bound  for  Wauwinet! 


WHICH.  85 


WHICH? 

WE  parted,  and  mine  eyes  were  wet. 

Thine,  too,  i  think  were  brimming  - 
With  tears  or  brine  ?  Love,  I  forget. 
Could  it  be  both  ?  I  think  not  —  yet 

You  know  we  were  in  swimming. 


86  VAGROM  VERSE. 


SONNET. 

LAST  night  in  blue  my  little  love  was  dressed ; 
And  as  she  walked  the  room  in  maiden  grace 
I  looked  into  her  fair  and  smiling  face, 
And  said  that  blue  became  my  darling  best. 
But  when,  next  morn,  a  spotless  virgin  vest 
And  robe  of  white  did  the  blue  one  displace, 
She  seemed  a  pearl-tinged  cloud,  and  I  was  — 

space ! 
She  filled  my  soul  as  cloud-shapes  fill  the 

West. 

And  so  it  is  that,  changing  day  by  day,  — 
Changing  her  robe,  but  not  her  loveliness,  — 
Whether  the  gown  be  blue,  or  white,  or  gray, 
I  deem  that  one  her  most  becoming  dress. 
The  truth  is  this  :  In  any  robe  or  way, 
I  love  her  just  the  same,  and  cannot  love  her 

less ! 


SLOOP  AND   CUTTER.  87 


SLOOP   AND   CUTTER. 

A   HAPPENING   TO  THE   "  HILDEGARD." 

THE  "Hildegard  "  she  had  sprung  a  knee, 
Or  a  rib,  perhaps  — 
(The  nomenclatter  does  n't  much  matter 
Aboard  of  a  yacht  when  they  spring — who 

knows  what  ? 

And  the  thingum-bob-stay  has  been  car 
ried  away  — 
And  never  brought  back  —  by  the  what 's- 

its-name  tack ; 

And  with  implied  hitches  at  ideal  breeches, 
The  tar  late  so  jolly  growls  gruffly,  "  By 

golly!" 
Or,  "  Shiver  my  timbers,  there 's  a  leak  in 

the  limbers ! " 


88  VAC  ROM  VERSE. 

But  this  is  a  lapse : 

Starting  fresh  from  "  perhaps  " )  — 

Something  that  laps  and  stops  up  gaps  — 

Rib,  knuckle,  or  knee  — 

Gave  way,  and  no  longer  d — d  out  the  sea 

(That 's  not  the  word  quite  that  we  dash 

out  of  sight, 
But  I  blanked  it,  you  see,  lest  the  editor 

might), 

Which  now  with  a  din  came  rushing  in, 
Drowning  the  gin,  — 
Metamorphosing  Chateau  into  singularly 

flat  eau,  — 

Dampening  sheets,  ruining  meats, 
And  cheeses  and  chintzes  fit  for   Kron 

Prinzes, 

Filling  with  water  everything  fillable 
(Till  even  Schiedam  was  n't  worth  its  last 

syllable) ; 
Very  little  the  wonder  that  our  skipper 

said,  "  Thunder !  " 
(Thought  perhaps  something  harder  as  he 

looked  at  the  larder) 
And  sent  a  hand  — and  two  feet — up  the 

mast 
To  hail  the  first  pump  or  packet  that 

passed 


SLOOP  AND   CUTTER.  89 

(With  that  hole  in  the  bow  our  bark  was 

bow-wow). 

But  never  a  ghost  of  picket  or  post 
Hove    up    on    our    view,  —  though    we 

heaved  all  we  knew. 
Nothing  showed  up,  in  fine,  but  abundance 

of  brine, 
Which  now  came  in  thicker  (spoiling  more 

liquor), 
Till  it  certainly  looked  that  our  goose  was 

cooked, 
And  that  crew  and  passengers  all  were 

booked. 
When  just  at  this  juncture,  —  when  the 

horrible  puncture 
In  our  starboard  knee  (which  admitted 

the  sea) 
Gaped  wider  and  wider,  showing  all  inside 

her, 
And  't  was  just  on  our  lips  that  we  'd  pass 

in  our  chips,  — 
From  aloft  came  the  hail,  "  Sail  ho  !  ho  ! 

a  sail !  " 
(Why  they  always  say  "  ho,"  I  really  don't 

know; 

But  it  seems  to  be  a  way  of  the  sea) 
And  of  course  to  the  stranger  we  sig 
nalled  our  danger,  — 


90  VAGROM  VERSE. 

To  show  him  our  leek  set  an  onion  at  the 

peak ; 
And  that  more  they  might  guess  at  our 

terrible  stress, 
From  a  port-hole  we  showed  her  a  case 

once  filled  with  "  Roeclerer." 
She  was  sailing  close-haul'ed,  but  aghast 

and  appalled, 
When  they  made  out  our  case  there  was 

changing  of  base  : 
"  At  the  sheets  !  are  you  ready  ?  Now  keep 

her  off  —  steady !  " 
And  with  the  wind  free  down  she  ran  on 

our  lee. 

"  Ahoy  !  "  said  she,  and  "Ahoy!  "  said  we 
(They  always  begin    in   that   fashion  at 

sea). 
And   then  with   insistence   they  offered 

assistance. 

"  Since  you  must  be  fed,  why,  I  '11  board 

you,"  she  said. 
"  Or  if  that  does  n't  gee,  then  you  may 

board  me. 
All  my  windows  are  bay,  and  they  look  on 

the  sea. 
The  one  thing  you  '11  miss,  to  round  out 

your  bliss 


SLOOP  AND   CUTTER.  91 

And   make  it   supreme,   is  just  a  little 
beam !  " 

Now  when  our  stout  skipper,  with  a  glass 

in  his  flipper, 
From  a  sort  of  a  trestle  made  out  that 

strange  vessel, 
"  Great  Scott ! "  we  heard  him  mutter, 

"  it 's  just  a  blamed  cutter  ! 
Go  aboard  that  thing  —  I  and  my  crew  ? 
I  '11  be  fuller  indeed  (and  dee  deed)  if  I  do ! 
Though  never  a  man  of  us  leaves  this  spot, 
If  we  drown  at  all  it  '11  be  in  a  YACHT  !  " 
None  argue  with    Herman  when    he 
issues  a  firman! 

That 's  how  we  came  to  come  home  in  a 

dory; 
And  I  'd  feel  rather  hurt  if  you  doubted 

my  story. 


92  VAGROM  VERSE. 


DO    I    KNOW   HIM? 

Do  I  know  him,  this  same  Mr.  Bright, 
Who  writes  all  the  books  and  reviews; 

Who  parcels  Parnassus  by  right, 
And  dictates  terms  to  the  Muse  ? 

Why,  we  bow  at  the  club,  for  form's  sake 
(Both  belong  to  the  Fiddlededee), 

But  I  never  ask  him  what  he  '11  take, 
And  he  certainly  never  asks  me. 

We  cut  in  as  partners  at  whist, 
And  then  I  know  him  to  my  cost ; 

My  trump  signal  always  is  missed, 
The  odd  trick  just  as  certainly  lost. 

We  meet  on  the  Pillowsham  nights  — 
You  know  those  hebdomadal  treats, 

Where  one  young  woman  recites, 
And  another  young  woman  repeats. 


DO  I  KNOW  HIM?  93 

Where  it 's  literature,  music,  and  art 
(With  agnostics  by  way  of  relief),  — 
When  he  takes  the  floor,  I  depart ; 
Life  is  so  uncommonly  brief. 

We  are  friends,  I  'm  perfectly  sure ; 
But  this  seems  the  status,  alas  : 
He  thinks  /am  but  a  flaneur — 
I  think  him  a  ponderous  ass. 


94  VAGROM   VERSE. 


LOVE'S   ANTE-CREMATORY 
FAREWELL. 

"  O  William  !  "  she  cried,  "  strew  no  blos 
soms  of  spring, 

For  the  new  '  apparatus  '  might  rust ; 
But  say  that  a  handful  of  shavings  you  '11 

bring, 
And  linger  to  see  me  combust. 

"Oh,  promise  me,  love,  by  the  fire-hole 

you  '11  watch ; 

And  when  mourners  and  stokers  con 
vene, 

You  will  see  that  they  light  me  some  sol 
emn,  slow  match, 
And  warn  them  against  kerosene. 

"  It  would  cheer  me  to  know,  ere  these 

rude  breezes  waft 
My  essences  far  to  the  pole, 
That  one  whom  I  love  will  look  to  the 

draught, 
And  have  a  fond  eye  on  the  coal. 


ANTE-CREMATORY  FAREWELL.  95 

"  Then    promise    me,   love,"  —  and  her 

voice  fainter  grew, — 
"  While  this  body  of  mine  calcifies, 
You  will  stand  just  as  near  as  you  can  to 

the  flue, 
And  gaze  while  my  gases  arise. 

"  For  Thompson  —  Sir  Henry  — has  found 
out  a  way 

(Of  his  '  process  '  you  've  surely  heard 
tell) 

How  you  burn  like  a  parlor-match  gen 
tly  away, 

Nor  even  offend  by  a  smell. 

"  So  none  of  the  dainty  need  sniff  in  dis 
dain 

When  my  carbon  floats  up  to  the  sky  ; 
And  I  'm  sure,  love,  that  you  will  never 

complain 

Though  an  ash  should  blow  into  your 
eye. 

"Yes,  promise  me,  love,"  —  and  she  mur 
mured  low,  — 
"  When  the  calcification  is  o'er, 


96  VAGROM  VERSE. 

You  will  sit  by  my  grave  in  the  twilight 

glow  — 
I  mean,  by  the  furnace  door. 

"That  often,  my  love,  while  the  seasons 

revolve 

On  their  noiseless  axles,  the  years, 
You  will  visit  the  kiln  where  you  saw  me 

resolve, 
And  leach  my  pale  ashes  with  tears." 


THE  FRIEND   OF  AGES  AGO.     97 


THE   FRIEND   OF   AGES   AGO. 

Should  auld  acquaintance  be  forgot  ? 
—  Yes,  if  you  Adjust  as  lief  as  not. 

THERE  are  several  things  that  trouble 

one's  age, 

And  work  for  a  man  much  woe, 
Such  as  gout,  —  and  doubt,  —  debts  that 

will  run, 

And  rhyme  that  will  not  flow. 
But  when  all  has  been  said,  do  we  not 

most  dread, 

Of  the  many  bores  that  we  know, 
That  ubiquitous  ban,  the  woman  or  man 
Who  knew  one  "  ages  ago  "  ? 

In  youth  —  you  were  young,  and  foolish 

perhaps ; 

You  flirted  with  high  and  with  low, 
Had  one  love  on  the  hill,  and  one  down 

by  the  mill, 

Yet  never  were  wicked,  ah,  no  ! 
7 


98  VAGROM  VERSE. 

And  this  friend  knew  you  in  a  far-away 

way, 

In  a  way  that  was  only  so  so, 
Just  enough  to  give  hue  to  the  cry  about 

you : 
"  Oh,  I  knew  him  ages  ago  ! " 

You  are  married  now  and  quite  circum 
spect  ; 

Your  pace,  like  your  speech,  is  slow. 
You  tell  in  a  bank,  keep  silent  in  church, 

Are  one  it  is  proper  to  know ; 
But  this  vigilant  friend  will  never  consent 

That  your  virtues  unchallenged   shall 

go. 

Though  she  never  demurs,  but  only  avers 
That  she  knew  you  "  ages  ago." 

And  sure  I  am  that  if  ever  I  win 

To  the  place  where  I  hope  to  go, 
To  sit  among  saints,  perhaps  the  chief, 

In  raiment  as  white  as  snow, 
Before  me  and  busy  among  the  blest  — 

Perhaps  in  the  self-same  row  — 
I  shall  find  my  ban,  this  woman  or  man 

Who  knew  me  "  ages  ago," 


THE  FRIEND   OF  AGES  AGO.      99 

And  shall  hear  the  voice  I  so  oft  have 

heard  — 

A  voice  neither  sweet  nor  low  — 
As  it  whispers  still  with  an  accent  shrill 

The  refrain  that  so  well  I  know: 
"  Oh,  you  need  n't  be  setting  much  store 

by  him; 

This  new  angel 's  not  much  of  a  show. 
He  may  fool  some  saint  who   isn't  ac 
quaint  ; 
But  /  knew  him  ages  ago." 


100  VAGROM  VERSE. 


MY   FATHER. 

WHO  hailed  me  first  with  rapturous  joy, 
And  did  not  fret  and  feel  annoy 
When  the  nurse  said,  "Why !  she  'j  a  boy ! "? 
My  Father. 

Who  gave  that  nurse  a  half-a-crown, 
To  let  him  hold  me  —  did  I  frown  ?  — 
Of  course  he  held  me  upside  down. 
My  Father. 

Who  ne'er  to  cut  my  hair  did  try, 
Imperilling  by  turns  each  eye, 
And  leaving  all  the  lines  awry  ? 
My  Father. 

Who  set  me  in  the  barber's  chair 
Instead,  and  had  him  cut  my  hair 
Like  my  big  brother's,  good  and  square  ? 
My  Father. 


MY  FATHER.  IOI 

Who,  when  I  had  a  little  fight 
Because  Tom  tore  my  paper  kite, 
And  trousers,  said  I  did  just  right  ? 
My  Father. 

Who,  when  Tom  licked  me  black  and  blue, 
Did  not  turn  in  and  lick  me  too  — 
Saying  V  was  his  duty  so  to  do? 
My  Father. 

Who  told  me  courage  always  wins, 
And  taught  me  to  "put  up  my  fins," 
Till  I  could  knock  Tom  off  his  pins? 
My  Father. 

Who  did  not  always  make  me  plank 
My  pennies  in  that  old  tin  "  Bank," 
Where  I  could  only  hear  them  clank  ? 
My  Father. 

Who,  when  I  wished  to  buy  a  toy, 
Ne'er   thought   'twould    give   me   much 

more  joy 

To  send  tracts  to  some  heathen  boy  ? 
My  Father. 


102  VAGROM   VERSE. 

Who  bought  for  me  the  loveliest  toys, 
And  said,  "Though  books  he  more  enjoys, 
We  can't  indulge  these  little  boys  "  ? 
My  Father. 

Who  gave  me  next  a  glorious  gun ; 
And  who  at  last  —  when  all  was  done  — 
Left  all  he  had  to  me,  his  son  ? 
My  Father. 


MY  BRIC-A-BRAC  BROTHERS.     103 


TO  MY  BRIC-A-BRAC  BROTHERS. 

FOUR  and  twenty  tea-bells 
Tinkling  little  chimes ; 

Just  as  many  poets 
Tinkling  little  rhymes. 

When  great  bells  are  silent, 
Little  ones  may  ring  ; 

When  great  poets  are  voiceless, 
Little  ones  may  sing. 

Little  bells  and — brothers 

(Do  not  take  it  ill), 
All  vibration  ceases 

Once  your  tongues  are  still. 

There  are  tones  and  voices 

That  can  never  die  ; 
I  can  only  think  of 

Tennyson  and  "  I !  " 


104  VAGROM  VERSE. 

Still  there  may  be  others 
Of  the  rhyming  gentry, 

Who  each  month  slip  past  some 
Editorial  sentry ; 

Bound  to  live,  —  "i6mo,"  — 

So  let  us  agree  : 
I  '11  read  all  your  verses  — 

If  you  sing  of  me. 


TALK.  105 


TALK. 

IT  seems  to  me  that  talk  should  be, 

Like  water,  sprinkled  sparingly ; 

Then  ground  that  late  lay  dull  and  dried 

Smiles  up  at  you  revivified, 

And  flowers  —  of    speech  —  touched  by 

the  dew 

Put  forth  fresh  root  and  bud  anew. 
But  I  'm  not  sure  that  any  flower 
Would  thrive  beneath  Niagara's  shower  I 
So  when  a  friend  turns  full  on  me 
His  verbal  hose,  may  I  not  flee? 
I  know  that  I  am  arid  ground, 
But  I  'm  not  watered  —  Gad !  I  'm  drowned! 


106  VAC  ROM  VERSE. 


THE   VISIT. 

WEARING  a  suit  of  simple  gray, 
I  called  upon  a  friend  one  day. 

He  straight  unlocked  his  cedar  room ; 
My  senses  swam  with  the  perfume. 

From  shelves  that  hung  at  wondrous 

height, 
He  took  down  wear  that  dimmed  my 

sight : 

Breeches  that  buckled  at  the  knee,  — 
"  Smallclothes,"  but  much  too  large  for 
me,  — 

Laced  doublets,  and  cross-gartered  hose ; 
It  was  a  wondrous  wealth  of  clothes. 

But  'twas  not  meant  that  I  should  share; 
They  were  not  shown  for  me  to  wear. 


THE   VISIT.  107 

'T  was  only  meant  that  I  should  see 
How  very  fine  a  man  was  he. 

And  while  he  walked  in  brave  array, 
I  sat  there  in  my  simple  gray : 

Think  you  that  when  I  left  his  door, 
I  went  much  richer  than  before  ? 


io8  VAGROM  VERSE. 


RECOLLECTIONS   OF   GRANT. 

"  I  KNEW  him  well,"  the  old  man  said; 

"  We  were  together  in  fight : 
/with  the  Left  when  the  charge  was  led ; 

The  General  of  course  had  the  Right. 

"  I  stood  by  his  side,"  the  old  man  said, 
"  When  a  bullet  whizzed  down  the  line 

Scarce    forty   feet    from    the    General's 

head  — 
And  but  little  farther  from  mine. 

"  Did  I  blench  at  the  storm  ?  "  the  old  man 

said, 

"  Ah,  sir,  the  bravest  may; 
And  from  childhood  up  I  've  been  always 

afraid 
Of  finding  myself  in  the  way." 

"  Shall  I  write  thee  down,  O  Hero,"  I  said 
"  As  a  friend  of  the  fallen  chief, 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  GRANT.     109 

And  blazon  thy  name  beside  that  of  the 

dead 
In  a  glorious  alto-relief  ?  " 

"  Nay,  his  friends  were   many,"  the  old 

man  said, 

"A  greater  distinction  I  want, — 
Just  say  I  'm  the  one  who  when  all  was 

done 
Wrote  no  '  Recollections  of  Grant ! ' " 


HO  VAC  ROM  VERSE. 


THE  WIDOW'S   MITE. 

THE  widow's  mite !  Ah,  who  with  eye 
Unmoistened  does  the  dole  descry  ? 
Dropped  in  response  to  misery's  moan, 
This  largess  of  the  woman  lone 
Can  king  or  emperor  outvie  ? 

Gentle  the  hand  that  does  supply 
The  modest  alms  ;  but  if  she  try 
Her  power, bound  hand  and  foot  we  own 
The  widow's  might. 

Right  well  we  know  how  maidens  shy, 
When  swains  approach,  still  turn  and  fly  ; 
But  when  pursued  by  lovers  prone, 
And  begged  to  make  her  mercy  known, 
The  widow  won't,  —  ah,  then  we  sigh, 

The  widows  might ! 


TO   THE   COGGIA   COMET.     HI 


TO   THE   COGGIA   COMET. 

ECCENTRIC  orb,  shot    madly  from  thy 

sphere, 
Planet  without  a  plan,  dost  travel  on  thine 

ear, 

A  courier  out  of  place, 
Through  wide  expanse  of  space, 

Bent  on  a  bender  ? 

Nebulous  known,  indef'nite,  fluctuating, 
Of  volume  vast,  but  thin,  wide-circulat 
ing, 

Thou  holy,  high,  translated  Legal  Ten 
der, 

Approach,    come    nigher!    obliging    ac 
quiesce, 
For,  lo !  neat-handed  gentry  of  the  Press 

Would  fain  go  through  thee, 
And  I  —  though  unaccustomed  quite  to 

vapor, 

And  not  detailed  by  any  morning  paper  — 
Am  here  to  interview  thee. 


112  VAC  ROM  VERSE. 

Give  us  thy  lineage,  and  thy  plans  define, 
Length   over  all  —  and  sure  thy  Water 

Line; 

We  have  one  end  of  thy  ancestral  vine, — 
We  know  thy  sire 
To  be  Coggia. 

But  round  the  record ;  tell  us  of  thy  dam. 
Art  thou  not  worth  one  ?     Is  thy  flourish 

flam? 
Art    thou     indeed    but    a    transparent 

sham, 
In    all    tradition    linked  with   woe   and 

slaughter  — 
In  fact,  a  vapid  cheat  that  won't  hold 

water  ? 

But  whether  yes  or  no, 
Pray  tell  us  further,  apropos 
Of  water,  —  ramping    round,    eccentric, 

crabbed,  — 

Ere  thou  com'st  nearer,  tell  us,  art  thou 
rabid  ? 

Has  Sirius  bit  thee  ? 
Art  threatening  still  because  the  starry 

cops 

Shoot  like  our  own,  and  after  many  pops 
Have  failed  to  hit  thee  ? 


TO    THE   COGGIA    COMET.     113 

If  nought 's  the  matter 
With  thy  medulla  oblongata, 
And  thou 'rt  not  mad,  —  though  at  thee 

thus  we  stare,  — 
Tell  us  the  chance   of  fancy  stocks  up 

there ; 
What  are  the  movements  now  of  bull  and 

bear? 

Do  things  all  round  look  blue  ? 
Art  thou  the  ghost  of  Daniel  Drew? 
That  Milky  Way,  where  all  the  small  stars 

meet, 

Is  't  there,  O  Comet,  that  they  milk  the 
street  ? 

Aquarius  with  his  pot, 
Who  waters,  waters,  with  one  ceaseless 

drip, 
And  only  rests  at  times  to  dry  his  scrip, — 

Is  that  man  Sage,  or  not  ? 
Earnings  of  railroads,  are  they  sometimes 

"  pooled  "  ? 

The  little  fishes,  are  they  ever  fooled  ? 
And  the  Great  Bear,  is  his  true  name  Jay 

Gould? 
Would  things  roll  smooth  along  the  taurine 

track 

If  't  were  not  for  one  baleful  orb  —  Cam- 
mack? 


H4  VAC  ROM  VERSE. 

Thou  canst  not  tell !  ah,  yes,  one  ought 

to  know,  — 
Thou  'rt    up    above,   and    brokers    meet 

below ! 

Have  they  newspapers   up  above  the 

moon? 

In  thee  I  seem  to  see  a  glorified  "Tribune," 
Some  "Times"  translated,  or  a  "World" 

made  sweet. 
Thy  tail,  what  is  it  but  an  extra  sheet  ? 

That  tail,  O  Comet,  gives  another  text 
For  questions :   ends   it  here,  complete, 

convexed, 

Or  is  't  "to  be  continued  in  our  next,"- 
In  the  next  world,  like  Braddon's,  Wilkie 

Collins', 
And  that  most  "Ancient  History  "  known 

as  Rollin's, 
Which,  when  we  thought  we  'd  captured 

its  last  "  colume," 

Always  outflanked  us  with  another  vol 
ume  ? 

Swaggering  through  space  with  baleful, 

angry  glare, 
Art  thou  the  "bouncer"  of  the  upper  air? 


TO    THE   COGGIA    COMET.     115 

Wilt  knock  us  out  —  unless  we  "  up  and 

dust," 
Snatch  us  bald-headed,  bust  our  ancient 

crust  ? 
If  that 's  thy  game,  put  up  thy  fins  ;  why, 

dumb  it, 
Earth  's  full  of  grit.    Thou  canst  not  come 

it,  Comet ! 


Il6  VAC  ROM  VERSE. 


TO    C-N-Y    M.    D-P-W,    ESQ. 

AN   ODE. 

[IF  UNRECOGNIZABLE  BLANKS  ARE  HERE 
SUBSTITUTED  FOR  REAL  NAMES,  IT  IS  SIMPLY 
OUT  OF  DEFERENCE  TO  THE  MODESTY  OF  IN 
DIVIDUALS.] 

I  wish  I  were  you, 
C.  M.  D-p-w! 
Once  I  wished  to  be  a  king, 
A  Cham,  or  some  such  thing ; 
In  my  thirsting  titular 
I  'd  have  even  been  the  Tzar. 
Then  they  spelled  it  with  a  "  C," 
Now  we  see  it  with  a  "  T ; " 
But  it  matters  very  little 
How  they  spell  a  fellow's  title, 
When  he 's  sitting  on  a  bomb 
Which  may  explode  quite  near, 
And  the  title  questioned  here 
He  may  haply  read  quite  clear, 
Next  breath,  in  Kingdom  Come. 


TO  C-N-Y  M.  D-P-W,   ESQ. 

But  before  this  bomb  device 
I  thought  it  would  be  nice 
Just  to  sit  upon  a  throne, 
In  a  state  all,  all  mine  own, 
Beneath  a  Russian  sky 
(Every  other  man  a  "  Ski  "), 
And  say  "  we  "  instead  of  "  I,"  — 
"  We  "  to  this  and  "  we  "  to  that 
(E.  g.,  "  We  smell  a  rat "),  — 
And  then  issue  a  fiat, 
Suppressing  by  decree 
All  who  did  n't  smell  like  me,  — 
I  mean,  all  who  'd  not  agree,  — 
As  the  Tzar  does  on  his  throne, 
And  R-id  in  the  Tribune. 

Now,  rather  I  'd  be  you,  — 
Be  C-un-y  M.  D-p-w! 
In  the  realm  where  you  preside 
Blowing  up  is  never  tried. 
There  's  a  deal  of  clubbing,  true, 
And  some  blowing  off  they  do ; 
But  this  treat  is  different  far 
From  that  given  to  the  Tzar  — 
On  one's  nerves  it  does  n't  jar. 

Then  at  dinner-tables,  too, 

When  the  air  with  smoke  got  blue, 


Il8  VAGROM  VERSE. 

I  've  seen  sinners  seize  on  you ; 
Seen  the  ruddy  chairman  rise 
With  a  twinkle  in  his  eyes,  — 
Showing  plainly  by  his  air 
That  he  thought  his  joke  was  rare, 
Haply  for  the  first  time  bruited,  — 
To  say  he  'd  been  depewted 
To  call  upon  D-p-w  — 
And  then  look  right  at  you. 

Now  I  know  revenge  is  weak, 
It  is  nobler  to  be  meek  ; 
But  provoked  by  such  a  tweak, 
Even  I  'd  get  up  —  and  speak  ! 

Yet  on  the  whole,  D-p-w, 
I  would  rather  far  be  you 
Than  any  king  or  pope 
I  know  *  —  or  ever  hope 
To  know  —  in  all  Europe. 

Why,  even  the  fore-mentioned  Tzar, 
Wide  as  his  foot  Steppes  are, 
Cannot  travel  so  far  as  you  in  your  car, 
And  without  the  least  danger  of  scath  or 
of  scar. 

1  Personally,  that  is. 


TO   C-N-Y  M.  D-P-W,  ESQ.     119 

But  if  rightly  I  read,  Mr.  D-p-w, 
There  is  trouble  ahead,  even  for  you. 
There   are   threats   in  the  air,  ominous 

threats, 
And  I  hear,  here  and  there,  rumors  and 

bets 

Of  some  station  awaiting  —  at  least,  nom 
inating — 

"  C-un-y  D-p-w." 
And  with  "oh"  and  "alas,"  —  for  I  know 

how  you  pass 

As  a  coin  good  and  true,  — 
I  say  in  my  soul,  Will  they  now  find  a 

hole  — 

A  hollow  in  you  ? 
Though    current    before,    accepted    and 

hugged, 
When  it  comes  to  this  pass  will  they  say 

you  are  "  plugged." 

As  it  is,  all  around  are  devoted, 
Unquestioned    you  're    quaffed    to    and 

quoted, 

And  even  the  Press  never  hazards  a  guess 
That  so  much  as  a  taint  of  wickedness, 
The  faintest  tinge  that  is  not  true  blue, 
Colors  D-p-w. 


120  VAC  ROM   VERSE. 

And  watching    afar   the   swing   of   your 

car,  — 
Which  it  seemed  to  me  you  had  hitched 

to  a  star,  — 
I  have  wondered  what  your  small  vices 

are, 

If,  indeed,  you  had  any  that  did  n't  show. 
Run  for  an  office,  —  then  I  '11  know  ! 
For  there 's  nothing  ever  you  've  said  or 

done 

That  '11  not  be  shown  to  the  noonday  sun. 
Of  course  you  've  never  done  anything  bad, 
But  were  you  Saint  P-l,  or  Sir  Galahad, 
Or  even  J-n  P-l  —  but  I  '11  nothing  add. 

I  will  only  say,  —  and  I  mean  it,  too,  — 
If  you  take  this  white  bait  that  they  offer 

to  you, 
And  go  in  for  the  regular  White  House 

stew, 
I  shall  cease  to  repine  that  your  shoes  are 

not  mine. 
And  I  'd  rather  by  far  stand  in  those  of 

the  Tzar 
When  the  canvass  is  through  ; 

And  I  would  «'/  be  you, 

C.  M.  D-p-w ! 


WALL-STREET  WAIFS.  121 


THREE  WALL-STREET  WAIFS. 
I. 

THE  LAY  OF  DAN5L  DREW. 

IT  was  a  long  lank  Jerseyman, 
And  he  stoppeth  one  of  two  : 

"  I  ain't  acquaint  in  these  here  parts ; 
I  'm  a  lookin'  for  Dan'l  Drew. 

"  I  'm  a  lab'rer  in  the  Vinnard ; 

My  callin'  I  pursue 
At  the  Institoot  at  Madison, 

That  was  built  by  Dan'l  Drew. 

"  I  'm  a  lab'rer  in  the  Vinnard ; 

My  worldly  wants  are  few ; 
But   I  want  some  pints  on  these  here 
sheers  — 

I  'm  a-lookin'  for  Dan'l  Drew." 

Again  I  saw  that  laborer, 

Corner  of  Wall  and  New  ; 
lie  was  looking  for  a  ferry-boat, 

And  not  for  Daniel  Drew. 


122  VAGROM  VERSE. 

Upon  his  back  he  bore  a  sack 

Of  stuff  that  men  eschew ; 
Some  yet  moist  scrip  was  in  his  grip, 

A  little  "  Waybosh  "  too. 

He  plain  was  long  of  old  R.  I., 
And  short  of  some  things  "  new." 

There  was  never  another  laborer 
Got  just  such  "pints  "  from  Drew. 

At  the  ferry-gate  I  saw  him  late, 

His  white  cravat  askew, 
A-paying  his  fare  with  a  registered  share 

Of  stock  "preferred"  —  by  Drew. 

And  these  words  came  back    from  the 
Hackensack, 

"  If  you  want  to  gamble  a  few, 
Just  get  in  your  paw  at  a  game  of  Draw, 

But  don't  take  a  hand  at  DREW  ! " 


WALL-STREET  WAIFS.       123 


II. 


DREW  AND  THE  COMMODORE  :  A  LEGEND 
OF  THE  STREET. 

CORNELIUS,  the  Great  Cornerer, 

A  solemn  oath  he  swore, 
That  in  his  trousers  pockets  he 

Would  put  one  railroad  more. 
And  when  he  swore,  he  meant  it, 

That  stout  old  Commodore. 

Swear  words  have  a  significance 
That  makes  one's  marrow  creep, 

When  launched  by  men  whose  early  home 
Has  been  upon  the  deep  ; 

We  think  the  old  salt's  briny  oath 
He  easily  can  keep. 

It  served  him  well,  the  Commodore, 
His  battling  with  the  breeze  : 

Knowing  the  ropes,  he  took  and  swung 
The  biggest  line  with  ease, — 

As  one  should  do  who  all  his  life 
Had  been  upon  the  seize. 


124  VAGROM  VERSE. 

Not  following  now  the  seas,  instead 

You  saw  him  behind  bays. 
He  almost  always  held  a  pair,  — 

And  none  were  swift  to  raise : 
Being  on  stocks,  't  was  plain  that  he 

Must  have  his  way  and  ways. 

A  railway  king  —  ay,  every  inch, 
And  standing  six  feet  high  ; 

His  arms  all  railway  branches, 
His  feet  all  termini  — 

If  you  doubt  me,  there  are  his  tracks 
To  witness  if  I  lie  ! 

He  was  the  Hudson  River's  bed, 
The  Harlem's  bed  and  Board, 

The  Central's  too,  —  whose  cattle-cars 
Through  half  the  country  roared ; 

His  pockets  were  the  depots  in- 
To  which  these  railroads  poured. 

Such  share  of  shares  were  quite  enough 

To  serve  a  common  mind, 
But  not  the  stout  old  Commodore's,  — 

He  for  an  eyrie  pined, 
As  though  he  were  the  eagle  bird 

By  chance  —  and  never  blind. 


WALL-STREET  WAIFS.       125 

But  brooding  on  this  Erie  sat  — 
And  quite  on  the  same  lay  — 

Good  Drew,  who,  feathering  his  nest, 
Affirmed,  by  yea  and  nay, 

Before  he  'd  budge  he  'd  see  them  all  — 
Much  farther  than  I  '11  say. 

Said  he  unto  the  Commodore, 

"Your  barque  is  on  the  sea, 
But  do  not  steer  for  Erie's  ile, 

Since  that 's  been  struck  by  me. 
Go,  man  of  sin,  and  leave  me  here 

To  my  Theology !  " 

To  railroad  men  the  dearest  ties 

On  earth  are  railroad  ties  ; 
So  little  wonder  Daniel  spoke 

In  anger  and  surprise. 
Tears  would  not  flow ;  the  Commodore, 

It  seems,  had  dammed  his  eyes. 

"  When  Greek  meets  Greek,  then  comes 
the  tug—" 

Which  is  all  wrong,  you  know. 
Unfriendly  fires  burn  fast  enough 

Without  the  help  of  tow, — 
Especially  when  Coke  is  on, 

And  several  lawyers  blow. 


126  VAGROM  VERSE. 

Such  eerie  sights,  such  eerie  sounds 

Came  from  this  Erie  crew, 
It  seemed,  indeed,  a  den  of  Lines 

Prepared  for  Daniel  —  Drew  ! 
Not  strange  that  he  at  last  resolved 

To  make  his  own  ado. 

Fleeing  from  jars  —  perhaps  the  jug  — 

He  thought  of  foreign  lands, 
And  to  his  brethren  said,  "Arise, 

These  Bonds  put  off  our  hands  ; 
We  will  into  New  Jersey,  where 

My  Seminary  stands." 

'T  was   thus   Drew's   barque  —  and   eke 
his  bite  — 

Fell  on  the  Jersey  shore  ; 
Shut  in  by  Fate  as  by  a  gate  — 

Or  by  a  Commodore. 
There  was  no  drewbridge  in  the  land, 

On  which  he  could  cross  o'er. 

The  gage  of  war  that  he  threw  down, 
A  "  broad-gauge  "  —  and  a  free  — 

Was  picked  up  by  the  Commodore, 
A  gauger  great,  per  sea ; 

Who  as  he  liked  could  get  and  hold 
The  weather-gage  or  lee. 


WALL-STREET  WAIFS.       127 

'T  was  plain  that  if  in  the  tournay 
Where  these  queer  knights  did  tilt, 

The  Commodore  should  keep  his  seat 
And  Drew  should  be  the  spilt, 

Drew  might  make  tracks,  but  Erie  would 
Thenceforth  be  Vander-built. 

While  if,  in  drawing  to  his  hand, 

The  Commodore  did  not 
Quite   fill    his   flush,  and    Drew's   draw 
should 

Beat  him  but  by  a  spot, 
He  'd  lose  his  age  and  lose  the  deal, 

And  Drew  would  take  the  pot. 

Just  how  the  joust  did  terminate 

Nobody  knows  nor  cares  ; 
No  need  to  ask  how  fares  the  fight 

When  two  fight  for  our  fares, 
And  whiche'er  one  does  win  will  plough 

The  public  with  his  shares  ! 

We  scarce  did  sing,  Long  live  the  Ring ! 

But  Daniel  long  lived  he,  — 
Until  his  School  conferred  on  him 

Exceeding  high  degree ; 
Doubling  his  D's  until,  indeed, 

He  was,  at  last,  D  —  D  ! 


128  VAGROM   VERSE. 

As  for  the  stout  old  railway  King, 
Who  once  did  rule  the  wave,  — 

And  sometimes  rather  waived  the  rule 
Odd  tricks  to  serve  or  save,  — 

In  games  like  this,  to  me  the  King 
Looks  very  like  the  Knave  ! 


WALL-STREET  WAIFS.       129 

III. 
ON  THE  REOPENING  OF  A  TRUST  COMPANY. 

BREAK,  break,  break, 

On  thy  "  Old  Lake  Shore,"  T.  C, 
Then  resume  and  take  down  thy  shutter, 

But  not,  if  you  please,  for  me. 

Oh,  well  for  the  Orphan  Boy 
That  they  shell  out  the  swag  to-day  ! 

Oh,  well  for  the  Lady  in  Black 
That  again  they  've  concluded  to  pay  ! 

And  the  wise  old  noodles  go  on 
Discounting  most  any  one's  bill ; 

And  it  may  be  the  touch  of  a  varnished 

hand 
Is  busy  again  at  the  till ! 

Break,  break,  break  !  — 

You  are  open  again,  I  see ; 
But  the  bouquet  that  clings  to  a  dog  that 

was  dead 

Is  not  aromatic  to  me ! 
9 


(V ENVOI  EXTRAORDINAIRE^ 

It  has  (once}  been  said  that  of  tongue  or 

pen 
The  saddest  words  are,  "//  might  have 

been." 

But  it  seems  to  me  —  and  it  may  to  you  — 
These  words  in  a  way  are  consoling  too. 
For  instance,  —  end  of  the  road  at  last, 
My  rhymes  and  I  now  things  of  the  past,  — 
You  can  surely  say  of  my  vagrant  verse 
That,  all  things  considered,  it  might  have 

been  —  worse. 
For  I  give  you  my  word,  as  a  minstrel 

bold, 
Songs  even   less  tuneful  I  might  have 

trolled. 

If  there  seem  too  much  from  my  scrap- 
book  store, 
There  's  comfort  in  this :  it  might  have 

been  —  more. 
For  I  pledge  you  my  faith,  both  as  poet  and 

man, 


I32  VAGROM  VERSE. 

There  are  bolts  yet  unhurled  in  my  bar 
bican. 

And  this  burden  of  verse  that  you  now 
have  resigned, 

It  might  have  been  epic  —  if  I W  had  a 
mind! 


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